Chapter 7 - THE NIGHT ISABEL ARRIVED
Isabel chose December nineteenth.
Five weeks early.
Of course she did.
A Bellandi woman apparently couldn't enter the world without ruining somebody's schedule.
My contractions began at 2:13 a.m.
By 3:00, I knew.
I called my doctor.
Then Evelyn.
Then—
I stared at Roman's name.
We had been living separately for three weeks.
He stayed at a downtown apartment.
I remained at the estate because moving at thirty-four weeks sounded like punishment.
I called him.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Cass?”
“It's time.”
Silence.
Then movement.
“I'll be there.”
He arrived in eighteen minutes.
I didn't ask how fast he'd driven.
Labor lasted eleven hours.
Roman stayed because I wanted him there.
That distinction mattered.
He held my hand.
I insulted his ancestors.
He accepted it.
At one point I screamed that his entire bloodline had caused the pain.
A nurse reminded me that biologically only half the bloodline was responsible.
I told her she wasn't helping.
Then Isabel arrived.
Four pounds, eleven ounces.
Tiny.
Furious.
Perfect.
When they placed her against my chest, every political agreement, trust provision and family name disappeared.
She was just warm skin.
A cry.
Tiny fingers.
My daughter.
Roman stood beside the bed crying openly.
I'd seen him at funerals without tears.
I'd seen him lose millions without blinking.
Isabel wrapped one hand around his finger.
He broke.
“Hi.”
His voice cracked.
“I'm your dad.”
I looked at him.
Something inside me hurt differently.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But possibility.
Isabel spent nine days in neonatal care.
Roman came every day.
He never brought attorneys.
Never brought business.
Never asked about our marriage.
He learned how to change diapers around monitoring wires.
Badly.
He learned how to hold a premature infant without looking terrified.
Also badly.
On the fourth night, I woke in the chair beside Isabel's incubator and found Roman reading Luca's letter again.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up.
“Trying to understand my father.”
“Any luck?”
“He was smarter dead than I am alive.”
“Low bar lately.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
Then he handed me a document.
“What is this?”
“My resignation.”
I stared.
“From what?”
“Bellandi Commission.”
I looked at him.
Roman had dissolved the succession council.
Not the companies.
The criminal governing structure that had spent generations deciding marriages, alliances and disputes.
“You can't just resign from your own family.”
“No.”
He looked toward Isabel.
“But I can stop pretending she owes it continuity.”
“What happens?”
“Some people leave. Some legitimate businesses survive. Some alliances die.”
“You'll lose power.”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“Protection?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
Roman looked at our daughter.
“Because I almost inherited my father's warning and still became the man he was warning you about.”
May you like
That sentence stayed with me.
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